When I asked the reason, he simply grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and said—
“The signore believes Skodra to be a safe place. But it is not always so. Why run unnecessary risk? And a fez is very comfortable.”
So after buying a fez, I took it to the ironer, a white-bearded old Turk, who pressed it and shrunk it and combed out its tassel with great ceremony, and then I assumed the distinctive mark of the Sultan’s subjects, evidently to the great relief of the faithful Palok.
On our first visit to the bazaar Palok discovered a friend. He was a very tall, thin-legged Albanian, in a white fez, a white woollen bolero, and the usual black-and-white woollen trousers and turned-up shoes of raw-hide and interlaced string. In one of the narrow, tortuous ways of the bazaar, on a kind of platform before a small ramshackle booth, where rope and twine were displayed, he was squatting cross-legged, staring into space and awaiting customers.
Suddenly espying Palok, he seized his slippers, which stood near him, and sprang out upon the filthy pavement. Next second the pair were clasped in embrace, and after many mutual words of warm welcome in Albanian, I was introduced.
The seller of string looked me up and down critically until his eye caught my revolver in my belt, and then, apparently satisfied with my appearance, he touched his chin and brow in salutation.
We ascended to the little platform, and a box was brought for me to sit upon. A shout into the narrow alley brought me a cup of Turkish coffee.
“This is my friend, Salko,” Palok explained, in Italian, after the pair had been apparently discussing me. “Mio buon amico. One of the best men in the bazaar. For eight years we have been parted, and how pleased I am to see him again.”
Salko interrupted, whereupon Palok said—
“My friend apologises, signore, that he cannot take coffee with you, or offer you a cigarette. It is Ramadan, you know.”